


sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought

by gdgdbaby



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's called compromise. I'm sure you've heard of it before."</p>
            </blockquote>





	sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought

**Author's Note:**

> sherlock gets sick. written for advent (before i realized the showrunners were airing something similar, fml). originally posted on [livejournal](http://gdgdbaby.livejournal.com/98918.html).

"You're sick," she announces, cataloguing Sherlock's bloodshot eyes, the vague tremor of his hands, the cold sweat gathering on his forehead. He's a walking laundry list of flu symptoms, or maybe the common cold—either way: very sick indeed.

"I don't get _sick_ ," Sherlock says, contrary as ever. He frowns into the middle distance, multiple screens blaring their customary plethora of channels. "I soldier on."

She doesn't bother pointing out how those two things aren't mutually exclusive in the least. "You'll have to cancel with Alfredo," she says. When she pulls out her phone, he lurches forward to snatch it away before she can text him. She dodges smoothly and Sherlock topples onto the red armchair, coughing pathetically.

"I'm not ill." He scowls down at himself in dismay and attempts to rise. "I'll be fine in the morning."

Joan sends him a quelling look. "Stop fidgeting. I'll get you some blankets so you can stay up here if you'd like." She raises her eyebrows and gestures between them. "See? It's called compromise. I'm sure you've heard of it before. I know you'll refuse to actually rest so I'm letting you do your thing if it means you'll let me help you."

Sherlock opens his mouth to provide what's sure to be some sort of cutting remark and seems surprised to find it filled with cushion when Joan tosses one at his face.

"Don't argue. Sit still."

"A mouthful of synthetic fabric doesn't seem very conducive to getting well," Sherlock calls after her.

"Who's the former doctor in this equation?" The bedclothes in the closet off the second floor hallway are dusty but usable.

"Former being the operative word, here."

"That cuts deep," Joan says, casual as you please, and dumps a lumpy stack of comforters into Sherlock's lap.

"I'm not sick," Sherlock says again, an expression of tremendous distaste on his face.

Joan rolls her eyes, shakes one of the blankets out and pulls it around his shoulders. "Repeating it over and over isn't going to magically make it true, you know."

"No? Myriad studies show that self-initiated and self-sustaining positive reinforcement can drastically improve one's mental and physical health."

"Unwillingness to acknowledge that there's even a problem rather stymies those effects, don't you think?" Joan throws the last blanket over his head and leans back to survey her handiwork, pleased. "You look cozy."

"I'm—"

"Stop talking. Honestly, Sherlock, it's only going to make the sore throat worse."

"How did you—" Sherlock glares mulishly up at her. "Every day, Ms. Watson, I find new reasons to regret encouraging your budding investigatory tendencies."

Joan laughs, high and clear. "Oh, please," she says. "Are you really trying to take credit for something I learned during my first semester of med school?"

She brandishes the thermometer in her hands with intent, and he opens his mouth to receive it.

 

 

The precinct calls with a case later on in the morning. Sherlock nearly breaks his neck trying to flee out one of the second story windows while she's making him soup in the kitchen downstairs, because apparently even the keenest deductive minds (his words, not hers) experienced grave errors in judgment from time to time.

"He's sick," she informs Gregson, who chuckles over the line.

"Good luck with that," he says enigmatically.

She watches Sherlock totter in circles in the living room with a colander perched askew on his head, and thinks she might know what he means.


End file.
